Kara and Peter
by lazarus73
Summary: An idea I got when I saw an internet query about who in the marvel universe would be a suitable pairing/date/bf/mate for Power Girl. I discount Schism, Fear itself, and anything that happened after. Beta Readers would be appreciated.


_A/N: Wow - I was not expecting the response I did to this one, as my other story is my main focus. This should be the edited, finalized version. With appropriate section breaks and corrections. _

Logan's scarred, muscled hand rested on his shoulder as he sat, silently crying and inconsolable. There were several technical terms Peter could not even begin to understand, as he had only a rudimentary understanding of higher end physics, but the important displays were quite clear. Organic detection level 0.000% was an overly complicated way of saying that she was gone. That she had simply faded away. He had seen this once before, some years ago. They had both been wounded, him so badly he was unable to move and had to fight to maintain his organic form, while she had been permanently in phase; BUT they had both recovered. Despite their personal trials and various crises of faith, there had always been a connection between the two. Even his Death and re-birth had not diminished it, but made it stronger. It seemed that they would finally have a chance to pursue the attraction that had been between them since they were adolescents. Fate had other ideas it seemed. The digital readout was the same, and had been beeping for approximately 45 seconds. Containment field: 100% - Bioenergy Detection: 0%

"She's gone," a voice from the doorway confirmed. Piotr did not need to turn around to see the look on her face, he could hear the unshed tears in Emma's voice. He felt the hand on his shoulder tighten, and knew his old friend was almost as emotionally distraught as he was. She had been Logan's student, and more importantly a surrogate daughter. The bleached blonde behind them who very easily could have worked as a figure model if she chose to had turned away, those ridiculously impractical yet appropriate stiletto heels clicking as she walked away from medical. The statuesque blonde had once been an enemy and a figure of fear to many. But in recent events had joined them in their struggle; now she was counted by many to be an ally, and as something more by one man in particular.

He reached out and touched the glass as the room was lit by an eldritch glow; his sister had returned. Looking at her brother and his best friend, she knew. She feel to her knees, the cloven hooves making thumping sounds on the floor as the sword at her side clattered, falling from her fingers. She had been too late. The denizens of Limbo would laugh in hellish glee to see her now - the red-eyed demon princess crying like a mere mortal; tonight and for the next month they would run in fear as she cut a bloody swath through their numbers. The anguish-induced rage would make Belasco's torments look pleasant in comparison. This death, this loss was too much for her brother to bear, and she feared what it could mean. "I came as soon as I could, but its too late… too late…"

He reached across and drew her gauntleted hand in his, as if his touch would give her absolution for this latest sin. "No little snowflake," he said using the pet name he had for her since they were farm children surrounded by oceans of wheat - on a different continent a million years and lifetimes ago. She knew that he was most likely pushed beyond his limits. They had all lost so much, but everyone had their breaking point.

BREAK

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?" Scott asked, looking at his old friend. "Running away won't bring her back."

"We have all left, at one time or another Scott, for various reasons. YOU of all people know this; I am an adult, and this is my choice. You know NOTHING will bring her back…"

"The only reason I'm saying anything to you is because I *DO* know Pete. So many of us have faced death - only to come back, in some cases stronger, in some cases different…" the unsaid implication was of course Piotr's own return to the land of the living.

"It is different this time Scott. There is not even a body to bury. Emma and your daughter -" at that comment Scott winced, the subject of Rachel Grey nee Summers was a sore subject for him "- have scoured the astral plane, and found no traces. Whatever was left of her is gone forever..."

Sighing, Scott walked over to his old friend and looked directly at him. "Pete, you've been my friend and teammate for many years. You are part of this grand, deranged, dysfunctional family we have, but I won't stop you. I don't agree with this, but I want you to know that you will always have a place here with us. When we have news, one of us will send for you and -"

"There will not be any news," he interrupted softly. "She is gone, and we both know she will not be back. And neither will I. Please do not tell the others until tomorrow. There has been too much grief of late, and the loss of Kurt and Kitty has been hard on Logan especially. Do Svedanya, stari droog moy." With that, he turned and left Scott's office for the last time.

Emerging from the shadows, his partner and lover came to stand next to him as Scott sat behind his desk, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. She sat on the corner of his desk, one leg dangling while the other rested on the floor. Replacing his glasses and looking up at her sidelong, he could see she was dressed conservatively (for her anyway) - a long-sleeved blouse with only the top 3 buttons undone, a skin tight skirt that actually covered the tops of her stockings, and open toe stilettos.

"How long were you standing there," he asked, avoiding eye contact.

"Long enough to hear your far-fetched attempts at arguing with him to stay, when deep down you wanted to join him or run in a different direction. Listen to me, Scott Summers," she said matter-of-factly, casually dragging the toe of her shoe up the inside of his leg and past the knee, "you are not going anywhere on this planet, or anywhere else for that matter, without me. You agreed to help me train a new generation of beautiful brats to be more than just labels, to stand tall and be proud of what they are and what they are capable of." She paused for a moment and stared at him.

_you said you loved me…_

_I do_

"I expect you to live up to that." she continued.

He turned to look at her directly and saw that the position of her left leg provided him with quite a view. He knew it was part of her teasing and flirting nature, but there was something else behind it, something almost desperate. Looking up from that healthy expanse of leg, past the silk blouse that he was certain had been one of his dress shirts, he met her gaze. "I feel so old, Emma. Like all the work we'ave done has been for nothing. So many of us dead and so many more wounded. Nathan gone, Kurt dead, Kitty lost to us forever, and soon Pete…"

"Then let me show you something that will make you feel young and have life once again," she replied, leaning forward.

"Emma, I know you're just trying to alleviate my angst and indulge your desires. We still havn't christened half the island, but I really don't think…" his voice trailed off, as he could see her eyes closed tightly. She was gritting her teeth, almost shaking with - was it rage? He was about to apologize when he saw a thin bead of sweat run down her temple, followed by a series of loud clicks from across the room.

"Throwing all the locks on that damn door of yours is most taxing, Mister Summers, but I value my privacy with you. Our losses have been many and our wounds are deep. But you and I are ALIVE Scott. I see no better way to honor our fallen than to celebrate our lives…" she paused. "Besides, you haven't touched me in 2 days. I've been - lonely." She tried her best trembling lip pout, that would have been adorable on just about anyone else.

"That WAS a good way to try and seduce me, Em," he acknowledged.

"I thought so, " she said as her foot traveled higher, "did it work?"

"You don't need to use speeches like that on me Em, but I'd prefer to make the decision to ravage you myself."

"And that is one of the many reasons why I love you, you great bloody boy scout.. Now let me show you what else I love about you," she said leaning in for a scorching kiss.

BREAK

Standing on a small hill in the Marin Highlands, overlooking San Francisco and Utopia beyond it, Peter was gazing out over the landscape one last time. He breathed the salt air deeply, closing his eyes and reminiscing about all he had seen, how far he had come, and the strange journey his life had taken. He was broken from his musing by the voice of his sister.

"Are you ready, Piotr?" She asked, deliberately using the Russian pronunciation of his name. Turning, he looked to his sister and saw that the tears had started to flow. She was dressed in casual clothes, and had taken her human form. But some magic was required for what she was about to do, so the soulsword still hung at her belt and her eyes glowed an unearthly red. There was a rough pentagram laid out on the ground around her, but it was etched in some kind of white ash. He knew better than to ask her what or how, he doubted she could have explained it anyway. He was about to answer in the affirmative when he noticed Doug Ramsey standing nearby, yet another ghost come back to haunt or help them.

"I don't know where you're going, or what you'll find there, but use this when you do," he said simply, handing the tall Russian a small, sealed box.

"What is it, Douglas?"

"Trust me, its something you'll appreciate. Kitty was one of my best friends too. I wish I could have seen the two of you together and happy." With that he turned and left. Confused, Piotr picked up a duffel bag and walked toward the smaller circle marked on the ground similar to the symbol his sister was standing in. Stopping in front of it, he looked at his sister and stated with conviction "I am ready."

"I love you brother, but know this - I am sending you beyond my reach and my sight. I will not know how to find you, or where to even begin looking. You will be lost to us, perhaps forever."

"I was lost to you when Katya faded from this world. Everywhere I look I see nothing but pain and death. I love you too Illyana, but I cannot stay here.

With that, she drew her sword and the candles on the outer points of the pentagram flared to life. Chanting in a language he doubted even Doug knew (at least right now), she began swinging her sword in a series of complicated movements, her spell ending as she channeled her magic and inherent abilities together. A swirling, purple glow appeared on the ground in the smaller circle before her brother, rapidly expanding to its dimensions. Stepping forward, he said, "Good bye, Illy-"

And with that, he was gone. Illyana conjured a wind to extinguish the candles and scatter the ashes. Then she fell to her knees and wept.

BREAK

It was a gorgeous, steamy, cloudless Friday in New York City, and Kara Zor-L - known in the business world as Karen Starr - was so livid she could not see straight. She was certain her Ice blue eyes had a red hue behind her sunglasses. She had been fighting a proxy battle in the courts for her company, Starrware Labs, for almost 5 weeks. The last straw had been when one of the attorneys for the opposing side whispered to a colleague that she would have better luck in the adult film industry than corporate technology. Needless to say the engine in his Maybach 57S had been _removed_ and was now in low earth orbit. It wasn't enough that Harlan Brooks had called her professional abilities into question, he had withdrawn all his funding as well. She needed a new financial backer, and fast. Apparently the word had been put out in the financial district (a maze as far she was concerned), someone wanted Starrware Labs and this takeover was most certainly hostile. After doing her own version of luxury car modification, she needed a break from the insanity that was corporate America. _Give me a villain to fight, any day _ she thought as she wandered through Central Park past the Sheep Meadow. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts and glaring at the sky line she did not even see the man she walked into.

"Uff. What the - watch where you're…" She stopped mid tirade when she realized that he had not moved. Or more precisely, she had not knocked him over. Turning to focus on him she stepped back as he had turned to look at her, and she looked up, and up, and up some more. He was huge and well muscled, in a dark gray A shirt and tan cargo pants smudged with what looked like paint. It looked like he had been either setting up or folding up his easel and paints, because there were art supplies scattered around the small folding stool and easel, a canvas knocked to the ground. He was most certainly not like any street artist she had ever seen though - he looked like her cousin had, only bigger, with the same raven black hair, but eyes a darker blue. She was willing to bet even in her 3 inch heels he would tower over her.

"My apologies," he said in a deep baritone with a slight accent she could not identify. Ukranian, Lithuanian, something Slavic she was certain. "I was about to leave when you came through the park, I did not see you. I hope I have not spilled anything on your suit." She was stunned, not just at his politeness, but by the fact he was NOT staring at her chest.

"What? No, its fine. I shouldn't have snapped at you." She said as he turned to pack up his materials and easel. It was a clever set-up to be sure, it all fit together in a convenient, easy to carry bundle - allowing him to carry his canvas case (was that what they called it? She knew nothing about art) in the other. She was about to leave when she got a look at the canvas as he was packing away the paint and dumping out a jar of water. It was one of the most beautiful renditions of the City she had ever seen, it looked so real to life and detailed, like he had been putting hours of work into it. "That's incredible, I've never seen anything like it," she said, amazed.

Blushing slightly, he turned to look at the piece with a sheepish grin. "Thank you. I try to capture heart of this city, but it never seems to come out right."

"What do you mean, this is gorgeous. If all your work is this good, you should try selling it. I bet you would make a tidy sum." she turned to look at him and saw the mirth in his eyes. He was trying not to smile too much - and failing miserably. "What are you - oh I get it. You are a professional artist, aren't you?"

"Sometimes, yes." he said as he packed up the rest of his supplies. Was he actually blushing? She was about to make a comment about starving artists when she noticed the watch he was wearing. It was dirty and had seen some wear, there even looked like a scratch across the face but the dial made her stop. It was one of the proof of concept projects Starrware had done some time back - a high impact watch for Military and Government work, which unfortunately wound up marketed for the idle rich wannabe Super-Hero set. Even that chauvinistic jack-ass in Gotham, Bruce Wayne, had insisted on one. Its function and construction were flawless, though. She knew she could drop it from low Earth orbit and it would remain functional after it landed - IF you could ever find the damned thing. She also remembered that it was VERY pricey - more ridiculous than that 3 atmosphere garbage sold by Rolex and Omega.

"Well," she said, "You seem to be doing well for yourself."

"I try and make the world a better place where I can. This is, how you say, therapy. There are some who like it, though." he actually seemed embarrassed by it, she observed.

"Well this piece is beautiful, you have real talent here."

"I am glad you like it, it is yours," he said simply.

"That's nice, but I can't buy - " she started to protest, only to be cut off.

"You misunderstand Miss…?"

"Starr, Karen Starr."

Picking up what she thought was a rag, but appeared to be a collared shirt of some kind, he wiped the sweat from his hand before extending it to her. "Piotr Nickolevitch. It is my great honor and privilege to meet you, Miss Starr." The handshake gave her a jolt. _Static electricity, no doubt_.Producing a fountain pen from somewhere he signed his name across the bottom in cyrillic. Flipping it over, he wrote 'For Karen Starr, NYC' and the date across the back. With that he produced a card from his wallet and handed both that and the painting to her. "Please take it here if you would like to have it framed." Smiling at her one last time, he turned and picked up his Portfolio and equipment - walking out of the park and towards the city. A strange man she thought, but he was talented and polite. And he DID have a really cute butt. Unable to resist the urge, she used her X-Ray vision to verify the age old question concerning men's undergarments. _Mmm, commando._ Shaking her head and chastising herself for her voyeuristic lapse, she slipped her heels back on as she walked out of the park, and caught a cab back to her apartment.

Jimmy Price, the doorman to her building greeted her as she walked in, and held the door as she very carefully entered with the painting. "Good afternoon Ms Starr," he said as she gingerly walked though door way and headed toward the elevators, being careful not to rub the watercolor cityscape on anything. "Hey Jimmy, been keeping out of the heat?"

"Trying to, Ms Starr, it's a sticky one out today and I am not as spry as I used to be."

"Good idea," she replied to the man who HAD to be in his 60's.

"What do you have there ma'am? Do we have buskers and street artists out in front again," He asked with concern.

"What - this? Oh no, I got it from some guy in the park. I kinda bumped in to him as he was cleaning up, and he gave it to me." Carefully turning to show him she asked his opinion on it.

"The wife loves Elvis on velvet, and I prefer dogs playing poker, Ms Starr. But that's a pretty good piece, almost looks real. This fella say what his name was?"

"Pee-oh-tur…. Nick - nick-oh-lee-vich.? He signed it in some weird language at the bottom. Closing the outer door to the building, Jimmy walked over to his desk to get his bifocals, and came to look at the signature at the bottom. "Hmm, looks Russian, I remember seeing some of it when I was in the Army in West Berlin…" looking up at her as he took his glasses off, 'This fella ask for your number, or hit on you Ms Starr?" He asked out of concern. Jimmy Price had been married for nearly 40 years, and while he and the wife had never had children of their own, he had taken a liking to this young lady. Karen Starr lived alone in an apartment on the top floor of the Excelsior building, and he had developed a fatherly concern for her.

"No, of course not, seemed nice enough."

"As you say Ms Starr. Oh! Ms Lee came by about a half hour ago. Since you gave her a key I sent her on up."

"Thanks Jimmy, you take care."

Reaching her apartment, Karen carried the painting into the living room and gingerly set it on the coffee table. Slipping off her shoes as she sat, she could see that the TV was on, most likely turned to some kind of pseudo-news/gossip program. Shaking her head, she could see Terra's attention was rapt as she was demolishing a bowl of buttery, salty popcorn. Karen leaned back and stretched her arms over her head until she heard the satisfying pop from between her shoulders. At the first commercial break, Terra focused her attention on the painting on the table in front of her. "That's pretty, where did you get it?"

"That, my friend, is the ONLY highlight of my day," She said, taking her sunglasses off.

"Was court really that bad," Terra asked sympathetically.

"I have never been so damn insulted in my life!" She exclaimed. "Accusing me of being unfit to run my own company is one thing, but one lawyer suggested I'd be better off in a 'Busty Beauties' video. Why is it so difficult for men to see me as a healthy, confident woman as opposed to a sex object?"

"I could give you two very good reasons near the second vowel of the alphabet," her friend responded, "but there are times that I am confounded by human males as much as you are."

"How does Diana deal with this?" Karen asked of no one in particular.

"If you are referring to the Amazon, I believe that her diplomatic status affords her more respect from her civilian associates, and besides she is too wrapped up in the unresolved tension between herself and the Batman to care."

Kara sighed, but it brought a smile to her face. She wasn't one for gossip, but she had to admit that the few times she had seen them both together, there was - something going on there. There was, at times, so much tension it was like a physical presence in the room. They seemed so different, but the saying was that opposites attracted. "Anyway," she continued, "I took a walk to try and get my mind off of this nonsense when I bumped into this guy painting in the park."

"That's nice, how much did it cost?"

"That's the thing, he just gave it to me. Cute guy too, reminded me of Clark, but bigger."

"Bigger than Superman," she asked, doubtful.

"Taller, wider, he looked like - that guy there!" she exclaimed, pointing at the TV.

"Who," Terra asked.

"That guy on the TV, Turn it up."

" - clusive artist and Russian Dreamboat Peter Nicholas. The exhibit at the Guggenheim ends this week. Nicholas, who exploded on to the art scene last year with his photorealistic drawings and paintings, has been the toast of Manhattan's art world. There will be a private party tomorrow night to close out the exhibit, and anyone who is anyone is going to be there. So far, Nicholas has not been officially linked to anyone romantically, but its only a matter of time before someone snatches up this Siberian Stud."

Karen and her friend watched as the co hosts tittered on about the artist, and played a clip from a previous interview. The shy demeanor, and that voice removed any doubt in Kara's mind - Peter Nicholas, or whatever he called himself, was without doubt the man she met earlier that day.

"So that's him, huh?" Terra asked, looking slyly over at her friend. Kara only nodded, looking at the painting again as the segment ended. "So, are you going tomorrow?"

"Huh, what?"

"Karen," she said turning to her friend, "Its obvious you like him. You said he was nice, and he is attractive. Besides, you need to - what do they call it - network. You said yourself you needed a new financial backer for your company, maybe you can find someone there."

"That's ridiculous Terra, I am not going to parade myself around as a piece of meat just so some wealthy idiot with the mind of a teenager can drool over me. I will get my company back, but I will do it on my terms, on the basis of my intellectual merits and abilities…"

"There is no need to convince me of your abilities, Karen, but you need help here. I know how much you hate playing up to chauvinistic idiots, but this time you might want to think about it."

BREAK

It was well after dark when Piotr went for his nightly run around the Upper East Side. He found it quiet and peaceful - he was just another jogger and could avoid any press or what his agent had called "fan-girls." Apparently everyone had groupies in the strange new world, including quiet, tall, muscular Russian artists. Even though he was "retired" he still felt the need and desire to stay in shape. He had tried various martial arts schools and classes in the two plus years he had been in this world, with little success and even less satisfaction. Apparently their idea of full contact left a great deal to be desired. Several broken bones, and one dojo master who would not walk for almost a year had convinced him to practice the few katas Logan had taught him by himself.

Thinking of one of his oldest friends and combat partners made him smile sadly. The guilt he felt over leaving him and the others behind could not offset the pain he felt over Katya. They had been through so much, and had finally consummated the love they had been denied for almost a decade, only to have it brutally ripped away by fate. He tried not to think too much about her or the others too often. He honored them with his artwork, and he hoped it was enough. He was so wrapped up in his maudlin thoughts, he almost did not hear the sound of a scuffle and a muted woman's scream in the alley he had just passed. Turning quickly, he ran back in time to see a man holding a knife to a young woman's throat and make a demand of her that made his blood boil…

Sprinting down the alley, he grabbed at the man as he pushed her away. Taking hold of him by the wrist and the throat, he slammed the man against one of the brick walls that made up the alley. "RUN!" he yelled to the woman behind him. Turning back to the frightened man he held against the wall, his feet were dangling and it was apparent his breath reeked of alcohol. "Coward," he snarled in disgust, "trying to take by force what she would not give freely." He carelessly tossed the knife into the shadows at the far end of the building as he released the drunk. Turning, he saw that the woman was still shaking in fear trying to cover herself, her face bloody and her clothes ripped.

Squatting down to try and minimize his frame, he asked softly "are you alright miss?" He did not expect the look of fear in her eyes or her scream as she stared over his shoulder. Reacting on instinct, and for the first time since the battle on Utopia, he shifted into his armored form as he turned, making sure to place his bulk between her and the man. He registered the impacts of the bullets, but felt no pain. Even if there was a projectile handgun that could harm him, he was too outraged to care. "YOU DARE!" he bellowed. Faster than anyone his size should be able to move, he snatched the gun from the assailant's hand and crushed it into something that looked like a racquetball. Seizing a piece of rebar from some concrete rubble by a dumpster in the alley, he bound the terrified man to a nearby fire escape.

Before he could return his attention to the woman, he heard the squealing tires of a large vehicle. Looking to the street, he saw a late night commuter bus swerving toward some kind of nightspot. Those in line to go past the velvet ropes (wasn't that a cliché from when he was a child?) were already starting to scatter and panic as the bus weaved and continued on toward the building. Cursing, he ran across the street in front of the errant vehicle. He could stand in front of the bus and stop it easily enough, but too many passengers would be harmed by the sudden stop. He needed to arrest its momentum.

Crouching low, he grabbed the front end of the bus and lifted as he dug his feet in. The running shoes shredding under his feet as he left furrows in the pavement all the way up to the sidewalk, but he came to rest not 6 feet from the front door of the building. The forward momentum of the bus finally stopped, he slowly set the bus back down on the ground in front of him.

He could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel, blood on his head and flowing freely from a cut at his temple. Reaching through where the windshield HAD been, he gingerly extracted the unconscious driver and placed him on the ground. _We relied too much on healers_ he thought as he examined the man as best he could remember. Pulling off the man's uniform necktie, he bound the wound at the man's temple with a handkerchief covering it. It looked like it might be superficial, most certainly a grazing wound caused by a ricochet off of his body.

Standing, he looked through the missing windshield and asked as calmly as he could, "Is anyone else harmed?" Fearing they were too stunned to realize if any one of them had been injured, he turned to the stunned doorman. "You! Call Police and Ambulance… NOW! " Seeing that the bald doorman was pulling out his cell phone, Piotr turned his attention back to the driver of the bus laying at his feet. He was about to check the man's vitals again when he heard the first police sirens. "Chort Vozmee…" he cursed under his breath. Remembering years of a relationship with civil authorities that could at best be described as antagonistic, he chose the better part of valor and ran like hell. Manhattan-ites were a hearty breed, especially with the JSA based out of Battery Park, but even this was unusual enough that no one thought to take a picture of it - a giant man of literal steel running barefoot down the street after 10pm on a Friday night.

Patrol Sergeant, John 'Jackie-boy' Vincennes, first officer on scene, had taken one look at the handprints in the bus and the deep furrows in the pavement, and immediately put in the call for the Metahuman Response Officer for his precinct. Calling in the MRO meant a meta-problem, a meta-problem meant the JSA, and the JSA meant PeeGee. The thought of an angry blond with the body of a feature dancer who could juggle cement trucks AND had a bad attitude made his ulcer flare up. As if on cue, one of the few people who could trade blows with Big Blue in Metropolis himself landed at the scene. It was gonna be a long night.

Several blocks away, the man known to many as Peter Nicholas was returning to the front entrance of the Pierre Hotel. While he was one of the quietest, he was by no means the most eccentric guest to ever stay at the hotel. So it was not even remarked upon when he returned several hours after his nightly run, barefoot. _At least_, he thought gratefully, _my clothes are not ripped too badly, baggy sweatpants and spandex shirts be praised." _Unfortunately, he did not see 22 year old Andrea "Andi" Luskin - photographer for the New York Post with a mild crush and a telephoto lens. After reaching his suite and a scalding shower, he stood for several minutes staring at his reflection. _Doorak! _he thought with contempt as he stared at his reflection in the foggy mirror. _How could I have been so careless? I was SEEN, photographed most likely._ As angry as he was, he knew he would have acted the same given the choice.

BREAK

By the time a certain mutant VERY far from home was exiting the shower, the woman popularly known as Power Girl was starting to get a clearer picture of the events of the evening. She had not even intended to patrol tonight, she just wanted to get in some sky time to clear her head. But the gunshots so close to Central Park, followed by the screeching tires and impact drew her. Now she was talking with one of the MRO's for Manhattan Island, and she was not happy.

Detective-Specialist 2nd grade John Devlin was trying his best to mollify the tall blond in front of him. His job was to chase down meta-criminals, or metas who lost control and were a danger to the community at large. Working with the local metas who seemed to have everyone's best interests at heart (like the JSA) was also his responsibility. The chain of events seemed logical, but he could not be certain. "So," he began, "we have an attempted rape victim who claims she was saved by a literal knight in shining armor - no mention of noble steed." He paused, looking through his notes, "then witnesses report a shiny man of metal running from near that location to catch this bus, administer first aid to the driver, then run off…" He took a sip of his cold, bitter coffee, once again thinking he wound up on some bad TV cop show. "We also have a Caucasian male with a broken hand, severe bruising about the neck, arm, shoulders and back, tied to a fire escape with a crushed handgun nearby..."

"Continue Detective," she said as she folded her arms across her chest, not oblivious to the effect on her physique and the people observing her. _Pigs_ she thought disgustedly.

"Alright. You said your friend Steel was NOT in town, right?"

"Correct, he is on the JLA satellite for the next two weeks, something about upgrading long-range communications."

"Alright. Occam's razor."

"What on Earth are you babbling about, Detective," she asked as she was starting to get annoyed.

"Never mind. It would appear we have a meta who happens upon this woman being attacked. He intervenes and takes a dim view of a man using a gun. Then seeing this bus swerving out of control, runs across and stops it from crashing into this place behind us. He makes sure no one is seriously harmed, then takes off. Its not uncommon for you masks to leave before the officers show up, so my guess is you have a new hero meta operating solo. And a big one at that."

"Surely you are not given to believing hyperbole, Detective," Karen asked.

"Not in this case, ma'am. Look at the front end of this bus - see how large and how far apart those handprints are. Just eyeballing it I am gonna say this guy is AT LEAST 7 feet tall. A 7ft tall steel giant running around Manhattan should not be that hard to find."

"Oh I'll find him alright," Karen said punching the palm of her left hand with her fist. The minor shockwave setting Det Devlin's teeth aching.

"About that ma'am, you might wanna go easy on this guy. I know you metas are territorial, but…" Karen's attention was drawn to some of the metal crumpled on the front of the bus. Looking closely at the left handprint, she could hear a faint ticking. A quick x-ray scan confirmed what she thought - Another one of those damn watches they had made. Originally designed for checkmate, Waller ordered but never paid for them. Budget cuts, she had said.. To offset their manufacturing costs, the watches were then sold to the civilian market - now one was embedded in the front of the bus. Using a quick burst of speed, she had ripped it from the sheet metal body of the bus and hid it in her gauntlet. Turning back to the Det, she said "Maybe you are right, maybe I will go easy on this guy. After all, he did save at least 50 lives tonight. Looks like you have it under control Det Devlin - goodnight." Watching her soar away into the night, Detective Devlin shuddered. He knew she gave up to easily…

Returning to her apartment, Karen found Atlee asleep on the couch. The latest Saccharine-sweet Rom Com on in the living room, and her ugly cat asleep on the arm of the sofa. "Traitor," she muttered to the cat who refused to even acknowledge her presence. Going to her desk, she picked up the phone and dialed her assistant as she stripped out of her uniform. "Francine? Yes its me. Do you remember the checkmate watch we tried to market sometime back? Yeah yeah, the watch even Superman can wear - who thought up that ad campaign anyway? Never mind. I need you to pull the record on one of those watches - the serial number? SLCA-00030716... Those records are on the private server at the office? No, not tonight. You can check in the morning… What do you mean it IS morning, its only… " flipping the watch over she saw that it was indeed, well after midnight. "Ok I guess it IS morning. Go back to sleep, Francine. But I want that information by 9am. Good night." Hanging up the phone, she went in to her bedroom to curl up under the covers. If she was right about that watch, she had a party to crash so she could have some choice words with a painter.

BREAK

After Francine had confirmed her suspicions, Karen made a call to old friend and former teammate Michael Holt. Peter Nicholas was becoming more and more of an interest to her, and not for the innuendo hinted on in this morning's New York Post. The article was the usual nonsense and salacious rumors, but there were two things that caught her eye. The white spot around his wrist where a watch had been, and the fact that he was barefoot.

"Michael, I need everything you can find on a Peter Nicholas," she said.

"The Artist? I didn't think he was your type. In fact I didn't think ANY guy on this planet was your type. Is it personal or professional?"

"Professional for now. I want to check a few things out first, see if I have to involve the JSA or your people."

"I'll see what I can find, but I will have to coordinate with Oracle… I can hear your teeth grinding and your fist clenching from here Karen. Your personal problems with the woman aside, no one has more extensive databases than she does. And if she does not know it, she can find out who will."

Reminding herself that crushing the phone would not do her any good, Karen took a few cleansing breaths. "Alright, fine," she said after a moment," you do what you have to do, but keep that damn woman away from me."

"Easy enough Karen. I'll call back in a few hours."

BREAK

Barbara Gordon prided herself on the ability to find anything in the sea of information if she looked hard enough. There was not a system she could not hack or get into, or a database that she did not have access to. On the surface, everything about her target seemed legitimate. An orphan from one of the state owned farms in Ust Ordynsky region of Siberia, born in the waning days of the soviet union, with understandably very few records to back it up. A possible red flag, but hardly unusual, as the soviets were not known to be diligent with their paperwork.

The facts of his bio seemed plausible enough: wandering alone, self taught artist, in the right place at the right time to make a great deal of money involving farming and tractors after the collapse of the USSR. It was hardly strange, even Bruce was not above dipping his fingers into the chaos caused by the dissolution of the Soviet Union. But there was something odd about it though; it almost looked like the cover story a HS student would create, like he wanted to dirty up a record that would draw attention through its perfection. Following a hunch, she checked her old db backups for cross reference information, but that didn't confirm anything. With that in mind, she immediately toggled open a connection to Michael Holt.

"Hey T, keeping out of trouble in DC?" she asked jovially. It was a common opinion among those around the clock tower that she spent too much time with Dick Grayson. His unique speech patterns and irreverence for everyone in authority was trying at times.

"Funny Oracle, what do you have?"

"Wait, is this for the JSA or Checkmate," she asked.

"Neither. Its just a favor for an old friend." He answered.

Thinking aloud, she said "an old friend, who cannot or will not talk to me directly, even under encoding. So that means… Power Girl! What does she want to know about him?"

"She wouldn't say, all she said was she wanted everything."

"Alright, I am sending you all the data I have, and every file I could find. But there is just one thing."

"What's that?"

"Well…"

BREAK

Callista Marr - Cala to her friends and clients - had been a moderately successful fashion model before she decided to become an agent and leave the fashion world behind. A lifelong love with the creative energy involved in "traditional" mediums had pushed her towards the art world. While not overwhelmingly successful, she had made more than enough to get by. Her first big name client was Peter Nicholas, and she had developed a sisterly affection for him. Tall, soft-spoken, muscular, sensitive, and phenomenally talented to boot, he was an ideal client. He rarely drank, did not do drugs, and was generous with his time and his money for worthy causes - most having to do with his native Russia and the ROCOR. A callous handed farm boy who could use pastels and hold a grown man off the ground in each hand, he would seem like the perfect package…

She had no illusions that there would ever be anything beyond a working relationship with him though. He had the sadness behind his eyes so-called tortured artists tried for with whiny behavior and eyeliner. She knew his tastes ran towards women (so did hers once in a while), but it was pretty damn obvious someone or something had burned him - which made this morning's Post all the more unbelievable. She was not foolish enough to put much faith in gossip, but being an agent also meant being a babysitter, and doing damage control when needs be. "What the hell is THIS, Pete?" She asked. Her nonchalant tone betrayed the fact that she was angry AND confused. The copy of the day's New York Post sat in front of them. Open to the society page, there were several shots of him entering the hotel with his shirt shredded, and his shoes missing.

"What do you mean?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Nice try, Pete. You wear those damn shoes I got you for Christmas almost every day, and that was one of those Under Armor tees you love so much. What happened to them?

"I was accosted?" He offered.

"On the Upper East side, jogging through the city, a man your size and with your prowess was mugged?" Her voice was equal parts sarcasm and disbelief.

"I do not believe, either,' he admitted sheepishly. "When I came here, I thought to live new life. But an old fried once said 'I am as I was made.' Please, sit."

BREAK

"Thanks for coming over, Zee," Karen said as her guest entered. Terra had long since gone home, after asking repeatedly that Karen not do anything stupid tonight. Showing restraint, and requiring answers Holt and that 'woman' in Gotham could not provide, she had turned to the mystic arena. As luck would have it - Dr Fate was unavailable and Shazam was… actually she had no idea where he was. So she had turned to Zatanna Zatara, arguably the most powerful magician on this planet.

"No worries Karen, what is it," she asked as they sat on the sofa. Zee made sure to stay on the side AWAY from Karen's demon cat.

"Its Peter Nicholas."

"Pete? What's the matter, is he ok?" She asked with concern.

"Uh.. He's fine, I guess. How do you know him?"

"Oh he did a painting for me a few months back after he came to see my show. Really nice guy and BUILT." She responded, her eyes taking a faraway look.

"Look Zee, I have a problem and I need your help. There is something - off about him. I think he's meta and -"

Zatanna laughed at Karen's stern, grim expression. "You can't be serious. Photorealistic painting does not a meta make…." her voice trailed off, as she saw the recently framed canvas hanging on the wall, the only artwork in the tidy but Spartan apartment. "Wait, that's one of his, isn't it? Its an original, too. Where did you get it?" She asked.

"I bumped into him yesterday in the park. Look, that's not the point -

"Wait, he's here?" she asked, her eyes going wide and shining brightly

"Yeah, some kind of closing party at the Guggenheim for his show there. The point is -"

"Tonight? KCUF! I totally forgot! Come on, Karen, we need to get ready!"

"Zee, I don't understand. Look The reason I called you here -"

"NO TIME! Manis, pedis, oh dammit why didn't you tell me sooner? Never mind. I know someone who can help. We gotta get you a dress."

Karen's objections were drowned out by the enthusiasm and energy of her Homo Magi companion. The sheer force of will and Karen's own innate weakness to magic allowed her to be caught up in the winds of what was known as hurricane ZEE.

BREAK

Peter had been to the far ends of the universe, and faced the demons of more than one hell, so it was ironic that he had never felt so uncomfortable before tonight. He had achieved a small degree of success in the past, but nothing like this. He was a shy and quiet man by nature, and being the center of so much scrutiny and false adoration was not something he enjoyed. In another world and another time, he had lost his memory and actually thought he WAS Peter Nicholas. Then as now he had an ex fashion model agent named Cala, and seemed to have caught the attention of what she had called celebutantes; but they seemed to show more restraint then. Was it a characteristic of the times, or of this strange new/yet familiar world he found himself in? Cala had suggested that he mingle and he agreed, in exchange for the explanation she was due. Now, however, he wondered about the wisdom of his choice. The last young woman he had spoken to suggested that he fly with her and her younger sister to St Tropez on her father's private jet for a long weekend. She could not have been more than 17, and her sister would not be able to drive for at least a year. He shuddered at the thought.

For almost half his life he had been a costumed "hero" - albeit in a world where the word Mutant had been equated with fear, hatred, and religious fervor. Logan had once told him that he couldn't stand to sit idle - no amount of Zen could quiet the restlessness he felt. Peter had laughed and said he would never feel such things - he would enjoy the simple life of painter, farmer, and husband. However, last night had changed all that. The rage he felt towards the man in the alley, the fear for the passengers on the bus and the bystanders outside the nightclub, the rush of adrenaline - it had made him feel more alive than ever. He knew this world had superheroes - many famous ones in fact - but the anti-mutant prejudice was non-existent here. There had been no drive to register costumed adventurers with the government, no wars of genetics over which species would have the right to dominate this planet - at least not that he had seen. He had been reluctant to "come out" as it were, but now Peter was rethinking the wisdom of that decision.

Now, however, he was hiding from the latest 20 something "actress" - a busty redhead who had publicly and drunkenly declared she wanted a piece of the "Siberian Stud" - in a corner room of the exhibit. He was standing in front of a large black and white drawing he had done of Logan when 3 very determined women found him.

Zatanna Zatarra was, after all of her primping and preparation, dressed almost exactly like she did on a regular show night. A variant of white tie formal wear, she eschewed the standard shirt this evening for the waistcoat and cut out shirt that allowed her to wear her favorite cufflinks (a memento form her late father) and also showed a healthy amount of her décolletage. Instead of her normal platform shoes, she elected to wear her knee high stiletto boots. The standard top hat and white gloves completed the outfit. She was giddy with anticipation at seeing her friend again. He reminded her of her one time crush on Superman, only he had an Earthy scent to him - like he was always in the farm fields. There was something about his aura that she could not place though. But she took that to mean nerves, anxiety, and the natural attraction she felt towards him.

Cala had forsaken any kind of dress for a dark blue business suit. She felt it was indicative of her position and responsibilities - Peter was her client, and as such was always on duty, even when she was having fun. He had promised her answers tonight, and she was determined to get them.

Karen, surprisingly enough, felt more relaxed here than she thought she would. The so called Manhattan elite and rich held no interest for her though. After spending 10 minutes talking to a short, balding self-made multi-millionaire and his brain dead, 22 year old trophy wife (who stood almost a foot taller), she was seriously debating cutting everyone a severance check and folding Starrware Labs, funding be damned… _If I have to deal with leering fools like that at every quarterly meeting, I would rather do like Diana and work at a taco joint._ Apart from that she felt fantastic. Despite her objections, Zee had won out in the end, and she had to admit that she looked damn good. An ankle length, spaghetti strap, royal blue dress with a black lace overlay and black lace scarf/wrap, and tasteful 3 ½" heels. She also had a small trinket she wanted to confront Peter with.

(A/N: the dress can be seen at cybernetplaza dot com. Item # 13106)

Pulling at the bow tie and undoing the top button of his shirt, Peter breathed a sigh of relief. As was usual at most black tie parties, the people forgot who the party was for or why they were there; they just wanted to party. So it was easy for him to slip away and into the deeper reaches of the museum. Of course followed by three attractive women in heels would be fodder for many a tabloid, but a certain stalker for the New York Post had been caught at the door and effectively barred entrance. Standing next to the picture of the man who had been his friend and mentor in the "second class" gave him strength for the inevitable confrontation. Zee greeted him with a warm hug that might have lasted a bit too long, and stepped back. If he was surprised to see her, he was amazed at seeing her blond companion.

"Ms Starr? How very nice to see you. I am glad you were able to attend. Were you able to get that painting framed?"

"Oh yes, thank you." She responded, making the requisite small talk before she confronted him. She was almost insulted though, he never once gave her body the once over.

"Wait, what picture? Pete, you know you are not to sell any artwork without at least talking to me first."

"Callista, I did not sell anything," He said reassuringly. "Ms Starr was admiring a piece I was finishing in the park. She looked upset and I gave it to her."

As Cala rolled her eyes and started to mutter something about how her clients were giving away all of their best work, Zatanna could not help but smile. She had seen the piece, and knew it was large and quite impressive; giving it away was typical of his generous nature though. He was unselfish and without guile or ulterior motives - A LOT like a certain Kryptonian if she were honest with herself - and that only made him more attractive to her. She was about to find out how little she really knew.

"Mr Nicholas, I feel that I should give you something too. After all, I would not wish to appear ungracious. I can see that you are not wearing that lovely watch you had on yesterday…"

"Ah, yes, I - I lost it." Peter stammered. _What is she getting at - does she know as well?_

"Its fortunate then that the company I own, Starrware Labs, actually made that particular watch. Fortunately I was able to find it and replace the band for you." She squared her shoulders as she looked at him directly and produced it from - somewhere. "Would you like to guess where I found it?"

Sighing, Peter reached forward and took one of his few prized possessions in this world - a celebratory gift from Cala after his first piece had sold - surprisingly for a great deal of money. Closing his eyes as he replaced it on his wrist, he took a deep breath before he began. Opening his eyes and looking directly at Karen, it was suddenly clear exactly who she was. _How can people not see this?_

"It was stuck in the front of #317 Manhattan shuttle bus. Was anyone hurt?"

While Zatanna and Cala were both trying to determine exactly what was going on, Karen locked eyes with the mysterious Russian. In his eyes she could see the look of a professional adventurer like herself. At that point she had no doubt, he was one of the 'good guys'. "The driver was taken to a hospital. The passengers were mildly shocked, but none were harmed. If that bus had hit, dozens of people would have been hurt or killed."

"That was my fault, I did not account for ricochets…" his voice trailed off as he rubbed the back of his neck. He almost looked like a sheepish teenager.

"Huh?" "What?" the other two said simultaneously. "Pete, does this have anything to do with the pics of you in the post this morning, and why your shoes were missing?" Cala asked.

Turning to look at her, he responded "yes, I am afraid it does. There is an explanation long overdue." Before anyone could say anything else, Zatanna produced her wand from a hidden sleeve sheath "Erehps Fo Noitaccsufbo!" As Cal looked at her shocked, Peter locked eyes again with Karen and inclined his head slightly. _Can we trust her? _Never leaving his gaze, she nodded. _Yes. _In turn she subtly gestured toward his agent, to which he could only shrug. As he shifted his gaze to her, Zatanna took her hat off with a flourish and gave her best performance bow. "Zatanna Zatara, Stage magician, Homo Magi, and Sorceress Supreme of this planet." She stood and replaced her hat, crossing her arms in front of her and shifting her weight to one hip in a move that was - impressive to say the least.

Looking back at her directly, Peter said, "You Karen Star are Power Girl - Leader of the JSA and one of the strongest women in the universe." To her unasked question he responded "It is your eyes; crystal blue is not a normal human eye color." Now it was Karen's turn to be shocked. Most men never looked at her face, their attention was always focused elsewhere. Peter grinned slightly at this, as he shrugged off his jacket. Laying it carefully on a nearby bench, he then crouched down and removed his shoes. Standing, he willed his body to shift. While the socks got a little tighter, and he could feel the pants were too short now, the tears in the back and shoulders of his shirt confirmed what he had been afraid of - the shirt was a total loss. _At least the Jacket will cover it_.

His baritone voice took on a deep metallic quality as he spoke, "My name is Piotr Nikoleivitch Rasputin. I was born on the Ust Ordynsky collective farm in the former Soviet Union on a world very different from this one, and I am a Mutant.


End file.
